Pierrot
by kkibou
Summary: Riku is lost, wandering in a way made possible by reality discarding him. Sprawling cities, vast expanses of desert, exotic locales with frightening faces and chilling implications. He knows not toward what he runs, or from what he flees.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This was written largely at the behest of a friend, but also because I miss this fandom. It was originally scribbled into a Composition notebook while I listened to bond, which is the classical crossover that I suspect Riku listens to in this chapter. I'm not sure when I'll update it, but the more response I get, the more likely it is to be soon. Regardless, I'll try my best to be quick, without sacrificing quality.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Kingdom Hearts, or any of these characters. I also do not own _The Dark Tower _series, from which this down draw some (noticeable) inspiration.

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><p>He drove with the top down, the wind whipping his hair like twisted vines behind him. To be honest, he wasn't sure that the old Mustang could raise its mast anymore. Better that way, in his opinion, because it gave the hollowed shell of a once beautiful machine a more decadent feel. And besides, it allowed him to see the stars, eyes cast to the inky expanse instead of the reflector dotted highway. His only concern was his stereo, installed and after market, though it only played one thing, a deranged combination of strings and techno cacophony.<p>

Not that there was much call for concern, not in the world in which he'd found himself, carried to by his wanderings, his fleeting tire tracks spanning miles, infinities. He didn't recognize the dust bowl state he'd discovered, the endless terrain dotted with hovels, tucked away from the road, into safety, but close enough that he could still see them, reach them, if it struck his fancy.

These places had gasoline, not a lot, but it was more plentiful than water at least, and therefore less expensive. He'd made jokes early on, about how he wished he could run off the same resource as his faded sky blue Mustang. What felt like years later – though it had barely been months – as his munny pouch dwindled, so did his humor.

His skin, baked by the sun, was deep brown, shaded only by a wide brimmed, cracking leather hat, given to him by an old woman, some number of tiny towns passed.

"Here, child," she had said, her watery eyes reflecting the light from the ever present sun, which hung above them like a furious god. "Ye need this more than I."

"I-I can't," he said, stumbled over the words from solitude and lack of practice. "Really. I'll move on out of this sun soon enough."

Her expression narrowed, and she patted his arm, her touch reminding him of fluttering moths as his skin began to crawl.

"Aye, ye say that now," she said, mysticism undeniable in her voice. "But take it with ye regardless, lest the hateful sun finds thee in desperation."

She had spit upon the ground then, the parched earth eager to welcome her saliva, and he had taken it, rigged a makeshift chin strap later out of the string from an old sneaker, to keep it close to him as he cruised the empty, unkempt highway. At night it flew behind him, straining to escape his possession, as though it knew something which he could not.

A light in the distance caught his attention, the unmistakable glow from one of his little towns. Only, he had yet to see one at night, had expected, though never strictly had it confirmed, that the places were without electricity. And the illumination he saw was too clear to be flame, too still, even as the harsh wind that raged across the sandy flats threatened to shove his car from its course if he didn't pay it the proper respect.

The land distorted distance, but his eyes, the color of deepest sea green, never left that sight, as he sped through the darkness to reach it. It was more like a real city, he felt certain, thought even, perhaps, that it bordered another world line, that he might again feel that tremor in his soul as he crossed the unseen barrier.

Hope was fleeting in the desert, he had seen that truth, amplified a thousand times, in the faces of dirt streaked children as he passed them. They regarded the white haired stranger as some sort of god, or a warrior. On more than one stop, he could have sworn he heard the murmured word,

"Gunslinger."

He knew not what that meant to the people, but never met, knew only that he carried no guns, never had. The closet thing to a weapon he'd ever wielded was a wooden sword, back on a distant island with even more distant friends. He'd been running since then, had seen the darkness and been swallowed by it, even as he reached for company, foolish lies spilling from his mouth.

Whatever had happened, whatever had set his events in motion, he couldn't remember. There were only shadows, and then the bright blue sky, smiling at him from so far away. Only that wasn't right, it had been him smiling. Crazy to mistake thoughtless clouds for emotion.

All that he could recall, that distant town closing fast, was that he'd been driving, classical music with a twisted synth beat blaring through the custom speakers, as the wind tore at his hair. It was tied back now, the bit of red silk courtesy of a woman whom had fallen for him; he hadn't had the heart, as she trailed her fingers through the snowy strands, to tell her that he'd never be interested in the likes of her.

There had been girls before and since, fawning beauties he could appreciate but never really admire or reach for. Dancing close to him in the sprawling metropolis that had reminded him too much of the shadows, peering at him from behind metal mesh walls in places so oriental he might have felt at home. Even when the desire welled in him, became more than he could conquer, he never sought the company of woman. No, it was always his own embrace he trusted, fantasies leading him to climax.

Brown hair, blue eyes. Sometimes he wondered if he was going insane, if he'd lost his grip on reality when it had lost it's hold on him.

Easing onto the gas, he saw that the town was no city, was just another miserable collection of dwellings, but it was closer to civilization than he was certain he could rightly remember.

He cut the headlights, coasted to the shoulder, kicking up dust as his hands linked behind his head, and his knees steered the car.

"Tomorrow," he said, to the moaning spirits in the wind, taunting him to continue. "Don't want them to think a demon has come to call."

Though sometimes, when he glanced at the rear view mirror and saw his own eyes, his tired, nigh defeated expression, he thought he saw a demon watching him in return. Some monster born from incorrect decisions, and pacts with beings for whom he had no names, only numbers.

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><p>They stood in the doorway, around the windows, in the only saloon in town, watching the twin lights close distance as they approached. None there had seen anything like it, even the drunk old man, who sat in a corner alone, mumbling to himself. But then, no one there really knew the things he had seen, and most weren't convinced that he himself could be certain.<p>

But there were children there, barely seventeen, though the quartet didn't look it. Three boys and a girl, the latter of which dressed in the simple, yet somehow senselessly frilled and frilly attire of a bar maid.

"What is that?" She asked, though she received no answer as they continued to watch what they didn't understand.

"Do you think it's dangerous?" One of the boys asked, the largest of the four, with a plump face from which the dry air had not yet succeeded in stealing all joy.

"I think we should ignore it," the taller boy said, as he turned away from the hazy window. "C'mon, we're not closed yet."

With murmurs of agreement, the children moved away, save for one, the newest member of the staff, and town. He was slim of stature, with a messy shock of blonde hair sitting above startling blue eyes. He surveyed the lights, a sense of dread growing in him, a sense of things not long forgotten, of a past he couldn't speak, or even recall.

Flashes of memories that weren't memories quite, but things more fibrous, tormented his thoughts now as well as his dreams. Unspeakable things that sent him cowering to the store room as he tried, without any real accomplishment, to banish his inner monsters.

Something about those lights, gleaming like eyes out in the darkness, triggered something within his soul. A set of directions he still didn't realize he would of course fulfill, even if it meant condemning another to his silent, hellish prison.

"Are you coming, Roxas?" The girl asked, but he ignored her, walked to the old drunk seated by himself, unconcerned by the newcomer and ever mumbling his inconsistencies to his watered down beer.

"Sir," he said, sat across from the man fear, his eyes never the less meeting those of the man. "I have to ask you, do you know anything about this?"

The man looked at him, bandages on his face tinted crimson from where the sores had leaked, oozed their sinful pestilence onto cloth that had been applied with filth, not to treat, but to conceal. There was understanding in those eyes, and madness beyond that. But it was the knowledge onto which Roxas locked, the sudden surety that his own insanity was at least shared if nothing else.

Yet he didn't say anything, the man just looked at Roxas with those understanding, yet vacant eyes. If he knew what to say, how to answer the question, he held his silence.

"Sir, please..."

Olette touched Roxas's shoulder, a silent comment on the senseless time he was wasting, that they should all get back to work. Roxas, however, ignored her, leaned toward the man whose name he didn't know, wasn't sure that anyone did.

"You don't have to worry about whatever you have to say," he said. "I don't think you're crazy."

A sound bubbled from the man then, but it wasn't words, it was laughter, high and tittering, though his eyes, those eyes, shone more brightly with sentience.

"I'm insane," he said, took a long drink from his beer, and eyes it suspiciously as he returned it to its spot on the grimy table, as if he blamed it for his problems, and maybe it was at fault.

"Maybe," Roxas said. "But right now I don't think so, I really don't."

"Oh," the man said. "You're new here. Your eyes are different."

"Yeah," he said. "I've not been here very long. But I'm talking about those lights right now, about whoever is coming."

"Yeah? You think it's important?  
>"I do, and I think you know why."<p>

The man shook his head. "No, boy, that I most certainly don't know."

"Do you know who it is, then?"

"Hell, no," he laughed again, drained his glass, tapped it on the table, though no one rushed to fill it, because everyone was too rapt in the strange conversation between the boy they had not yet come to trust, and the old man they had always ignored. "I have no clue who's out there."

"But you know something," Roxas said, glanced at Olette, hoping she'd refill the glass, but she didn't, because she too was watching, wondering.

"I don't know anything about what's to come," he said, took a breath, his demeanor seeming to quiver where he sat. "I only know the past."

"The past?"

"The man who came before."

Olette made a noise, squeezed Roxas's shoulder. "Come on," she said. "Drop it. This is stupid."

"No," he said, though he let her continue to touch him. "I want to know about this man that came before."

"He wore all black," the old man said. "A long black robe with a giant hood, and black gloves. He was a magician."

"A magician?"

The man nodded, seemed afraid suddenly. "He gave me a number, told me never to say it, never to ask the meaning... He told me, though... He told me that I would meet a boy with hair like the sun, and eyes like the sky, and that I would tell him the number, as if he knew the meaning."

Roxas felt a quake in his soul, a shiver that seemed to disjoint him from the world, dislodge him from the reality he had found himself trapped within.

"What is the number?" He asked, his voice as hollow as his place in a world he'd never admitted he was not a part of.

"Thirteen," the man whispered, voice so quiet Roxas could scarcely hear him. "And it's meaning... Do you know the meaning behind the number thirteen?"

Roxas shook his head, but the motion was a whispered lie. The number spoke to him, in flames of desire and discarded pain, as sharp as the sting from the scorpions that littered the waste.

"No," he said, stood from the table, and looked to Olette. "I'm going to bed. I'll work a longer shift tomorrow. Dock it from my pay. I... I don't care."

He passed her, ignored her quiet protest as he did the stares of patrons and staff alike. He climbed the stairs to the room they'd made for him, a permanent hotel room, good for however long his life in the town lasted, though he knew, without possibly knowing, that his time there was growing short.

Counting those steps as he went, he found the number to be, with no real surprise, the one that had finally begun to untangle his soul from its mysterious shackles.

Thirteen, wrapped in enigma, robed in black, embraced by flames.

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><p><strong>Closing: <strong>More will be revealed in chapter two. Thank you very much for reading, and please leave a comment to let me know how you feel!


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **This took longer to post than I had hoped, though I suppose it's not been terribly long, especially considering my penchant for procrastination, and the recent things that have been happening IRL. Unlike the last chapter, this wasn't written to pulsing, twirling strings, instead, it was written to random television shows as I sat in my parent's living room, desperately longing for the heat index to drop below whatever hellish number it was at today. The final product was typed - the original was, as always, in a composition notebook - to the band Big Bang and their most recent Big Show live CD. I'd prattle on more about myself and the things that went into this chapter, but I don't want this note to get any longer than it already is.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Kingdom Hearts, or any of these characters. I also do not own _The Dark Tower _series, from which this down draw some (noticeable) inspiration.

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><p>In a distant world, somewhere along the track of time, an alarm sounded. The boy it awoke shook his head, blond hair tumbling into his eyes. Across the room, his roommate was still asleep, hadn't stirred because of the wailing call that had instantly shattered the other's rest. Cloud considered, for a moment, waking him to get the day started properly, but Leon's foul mood from the night before clouded his thoughts, tainted his decision. It was true, the things Leon had said, that they had been waiting and watching with very little news to go on, but it didn't warrant the constant infighting.<p>

He sighed, stretched in the early morning sunlight, yawned as it warmed him, set his sluggish body in motion, and he wished, not for the first time, that he could revert things to the way they had been before, when the world line made sense, and college children weren't being recruited to scan lines of unreadable code, searching for anything that could lead to their lives being tuned to the same frequency as before. But even Cloud knew, late at night when the monsters crept toward him, tormented, screaming beings, diseased and malformed, birds with one wing, that there was no path upon which to return. Whatever had happened, they couldn't escape it. Their current reality was one in which they were trapped, one that neither boy wanted, but that they were making the best of, whether they had chosen to or not.

His desktop computer came to life with just a nudge of the mouse, and then he was staring at the constant lines of code, convinced he'd see nothing new, because there hadn't been anything new in months, not since the last bizarre blip that had been disregarded like the few others they had documented. And yet they watched, every day, every moment they could spare, they stared at the tiny screens, eyes straining against the flow. Mostly there was nothing to see, just the ripples of time, the way the worlds danced together in a beautiful weave that wasn't lost on them, despite their growing impatience and fatigue, but sometimes, sometimes...

"Leon, hey, Leon," his voice carried enough, had a high enough thread of genuine excitement that Leon groaned, tugged his blanket over his head.

Cloud threw a roll of tape at him, and he flailed under the blanket, muttered a curse.

"Christ, Cloud," he said, already surly as he sat up to glower at the blonde. "What?"

"I think I found something," Cloud said, reached for and slid on a pair of wire rimmed glasses, his gaze never leaving the screen.

"What do you mean?" The attitude was still in his voice, and yet he was out of bed, shirtless and crossing the space between them to follow Cloud's gaze, though he spared a glance at Cloud's hands as they swiftly input the necessary keystrokes to narrow down and enlarge whatever he thought he had seen.

"I don't know," Cloud said. "But there was something. It didn't belong on the time line."

"There," Leon said, one hand on the back of Cloud's chair, supporting himself as he leaned forward to point at a fibrous point on the screen. "Lock in."

"Yeah, I see it," Cloud said, his typing focused then on the tiny anomaly, and bringing it into sharper focus, transforming it into a still shot of code that even their trained eyes had trouble understanding, breaking down.

"It looks like someone is getting ready for something," Leon said. "Barely changing things, keeping it small enough that whoever's doing it thinks it'll go unnoticed."

"Guess that answers the question about whether or not they know about people like us."

"I told you guys before that, logically, they don't know. They're just being cautious."

"It made sense to wonder about it," Cloud said. "They've affected the nexus itself, are jumping from world to world."

"None of that is confirmed."

"What about the disappearances? You weren't in this world a year ago."

Leon shrugged, the argument an old one, and thus less interesting than the code on which his eyes remained. It questioned memories and intent, and regardless of how often Cloud tried, he couldn't make Leon see things from his point of view. Leon, as always, remained silent as he studied the nonsense before him, shook his head some time later.

"I don't know what this means," he said, sighed. "it doesn't seem important, like it's just a line that was forgotten, and added by whatever naturally controls this at the last minute."

"I agree," Cloud said, calm expression unusually conflicted. "Like it's a natural aspect, a line that's always supposed to have been there. Could it be some sort of base code hacking that we don't know about?"

"No," Leon said, thinking. "It's more likely that there's more to it than that, some higher factor that we just aren't seeing, but I don't think it's hacking," he reached for the screen, traced the code with one long finger. "It's just, it's way too seamless..."

"So you think it's just, there? A hiccup?"

"No, not that either," he sighed. "I don't know, but there have been theories I've heard lately."

"Theories?"

"Magic," he said. "Resonance. I don't know. Some king of mystic forces that can be tapped into."

"Someone with that kind of power," Cloud said, hesitated. "I didn't think power like that existed."

"Honestly, I'm not sure I do now. I don't want world jumping to be possible, even by accident," he said, his expression shifting. "You have all the other irregularities saved, right?" Cloud nodded. "Pull them up, see how this compares."

Seen beside one another, there were obvious differences, namely that, of the handful of examples they had, only a few appeared to be as flawless in design and placement, the others all but screamed of dissonance, moaned that they weren't supposed to be where they were, that something had happened, some stress on the time line, or the world line.

"I don't know," Cloud said, as neither of them could make sense of it, still, though they'd both thought the visual would give them enough of a boost to complete the overly complicated puzzle. "There's no pattern to it, no way to make it fit..."

"Maybe," Leon said, worried his bottom lip, still staring at the screen. "Unless that's the point. What if whoever is doing this is only selectively being so careful? A confusion tactic, maybe?"

"Or there could be more than one person out there, jumping around in such a meaningful way that we can pick it up."

"That too," he took a step away from Cloud's chair. "Regardless, there's not enough information for us to figure this out."

Silence, for a moment, as they both pondered the implication.

"Are you going to call him?"

"I don't see much of a choice, do you?"

"No," Cloud said, his expression neutral again. "He'd want to know, anyway, even if he's busy."

"Looking for Sora, his mystery 'key' that he won't shut up about."

"Yeah... you might not even be able to contact him."

"I'll be fine," Leon said, snatched his phone from his bed, input a shielded number that even he wasn't sure he knew sometimes, listened to it ring.

"Hey! This is Mickey! Can't come to the phone right now, so leave a message. I'll call you back ASAP!"

Leon scowled, spoke into the phone with an emotionless voice. "Mickey, it's Leon, I need you to call me. Cloud and I have found something."

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><p>The town didn't unfurl for Riku as he entered it, gray boots kicking up little dancing puffs of dust as he walked. No one came to greet him, and it was the first thing that took him by surprise, that sent his heart to pumping fear through his limbs, despite that he told himself that it was fine, that the people he couldn't see were as afraid as he was, wary of a newcomer, but it didn't help, didn't stop the memories of shots damn nearing blowing his head off as he entered some cowboy town. The bullets should have hit him, he thought as he walked, as he always did when he called forth the recollection. They should have rendered his flesh and stained his hair scarlet. He should have been killed, but he'd moved, shifted, ducked to the side just before the unseen assailant had squeezed the trigger.<p>

"I'm not afraid," he whispered to the dry air through cracked lips, and how many times had he said those words, shouted them to the faceless shadows? It didn't matter, the uttered mantra was a lie he'd never admit.

A sound caught his attention, a rustle from one of the buildings to his right. His eyes snapped to it, but saw nothing, even as his heavy feet continued to carry him toward the establishment, a rundown saloon by the look of it, the bat wing doors, the horse ties in front, though Riku had yet to see any such animal.

"Hello?"

There was another sound, and an old man dressed in tattered clothes, bloodstained bandages, was thrown through the swinging doors. Reacting on instinct, Riku caught the man as he fell toward him, green eyes wide. The man looked at him, confused and reeking of booze, and Riku saw the open sores beneath the bandages, dropped him a moment later with a gasp, let him crumple in the dirt.

A woman followed the man out, and as soon as Riku saw her, he knew the anger evident on her features was something she wasn't accustomed to showing. She wasn't beautiful, not by his standards, but maybe by the standards of a place like this. She was, however, soft, childish though Riku couldn't guess her age, innocent somehow in a way that Riku knew was a fallacy.

"We should have done this a long time ago," she said, her eyes falling on Riku after a moment of glaring at the old man. "Oh..."

Riku raised a hand in a wave, long fingers splayed in a lazy gesture of hello, his hair falling into his eyes from where it had come loose from its ribbon.

"Hey," he said. "Didn't mean to interrupt anything."

She glanced to the old man, who was slowly rising to his feet, and then to Riku. "You're not," she said, her tone flustered as she motioned for him to come inside. "Come on in," she said, disappeared into the darkness of the saloon, left Riku to follow, though he felt no better about the situation than he had before meeting the curious pair.

Inside was silent chaos. There were no patrons, by the look of them, only anxious faced staff, milling about, desperately trying to find something to do. Some event had taken place there, and not very long ago, given the way the after effects still hung in the air like stagnant water, or poisonous gas.

"We don't get visitors very often," the girl said, though Riku knew it was a lie, could all but hear her contradicting herself.

"I know it sounds weird," he said. "But I'm just passing through. I have munny, so I'm not looking to freeload."

She nodded, though she seemed skeptical, distracted. "I'll start you something to eat, though we don't have much to choose from. We have water, and beer."

"Water," he said, sat at the bar with a sigh. There were fans in the room, spinning in lazy circles that passed the chilled air through the room, cooling the sweat which had beaded on his brow, forced his light shirt to cling to the small of his back.

He watched the girl disappear into the back room, had to resist the urge to rest his head against the filthy bar, even if he had just awoken. The heat stole his energy, and his stomach rumbled in protest to not having been fueled in so long.

"You look tired," the girl said, as she walked back toward the grill, a slab of questionable looking meat on a metal tray. "Been traveling long?"

"I think so," Riku said, because he didn't know. Some days it felt as if he'd been on the road for months, sometimes years, and different times still he wasn't certain that he hadn't just left the home he couldn't remember, struck out fresh on whatever hell path he tread.

"A lot of people here used to travel," she said. "But no one has come through in a while."

"Do people always stay?" His voice had a tinny edge of panic to it, fear that he'd get stuck in the little dust trap until he forget that anything else had ever existed. He already didn't remember his own origin, so how hard would it be for the sun and the wind to drive the rest of his memories from him, leave him a tan skinned worker of the place in which he sat?

"Not always," she said, and the way she turned to face the grill, the motion a quirk jerk, told Riku that there were things he wasn't being told, some level to the town's story, or at least the girl's, that she wasn't yet willing to speak. "Sometimes people keep going."

"I'm going to leave tonight," he said. "I prefer the drive then, the sun is merciless out here."

"Drive?" She glanced at him, the meat immediately turning light brown and aromatic as she smashed it into a more manageable patty.

"Yeah, uhm, it's complicated."

"Oh," she said, tended to his food in silence then, and when she turned to hand it to him she hesitated, until he laid a few pieces of munny on the bar. "Thank you."

"Same," he said, didn't ask for bread, had learned his lesson on the rarity of it already, but he did reach for the hunks of salt, broke them over the cooked meat, until it was all he could taste, even as it stung his mouth.

The girl watched him for a moment, until a boy called to her from across the room. Riku's eyes didn't follow her as she moved, because it didn't matter, and he didn't care about any of them, was too afraid to, too terrified of becoming a member of their sad little town. Her words had shaken him, more than he wanted to admit. All he could see were miles and miles of possibilities in the desert, and him lacking the drive to explore them, to continue to push forward.

Shivers danced through him at the thought, at imagining always feeling empty, disconnected, lost. It was torturous enough, always running forward without feeling like he was making progress, without ever knowing there was a destination, but to be stranded, unsure or unable to try to reach that distant shore...

He felt the over salted burger churn in his stomach, and he had to bite back the vomit as it tried to rise.

"I didn't expect to see you here," the voice was familiar, and yet utterly alien, which was what he thought when he saw the blond's bright blue eyes, eyes like the sky.

"Sora?"

The boy's eyebrow twitched. "It's Roxas," he said. "You don't know me."

"I kind of feel like I might."

"Yeah, I thought you would," Roxas said, sat beside Riku. "Mind if I ask you a question?"

"I guess not."

"What does the number 13 mean to you?"

Riku nearly recoiled, reacted in a way that was almost violent, that he couldn't control, his eyes wide as he looked at Roxas.

"Clearly it means something," he said, musing. "It doesn't mean anything to me, or if it does, I can't remember."

"Who are you?"

"I don't know if it even matters," Roxas said. "I'm not who you're looking for."

"No," Riku said. "I thought maybe, for a second."

"You were wrong, I can't help you fly," Roxas said, sighed. "But I know someone that might be able to. The only problem is that I don't really. All I can remember is red, fire, and a number."

"You sound insane..."

"And yet you hang onto every word I say. What's that say about you?"

"That I'm desperate."

"Desperation killed the moogle," Roxas said, shook his head. "This is the edge of the desert. I think something worse is next."

"Worse than this?" Riku asked. "I can't imagine it, I don't want to."

"Same here, but if we follow the man I think we have to, things aren't going to get any easier."

"We?"

"Yeah," Roxas looked at Riku, shot him an unbearably infectious smile that was entirely false, though it lit his features no less for being so. "I'm going to take you to number eight. Even if I don't know what the hell that means."

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><p><strong>Closing: <strong>Chapter three promises to be a bit longer, which is hopefully not a bad thing to any of you. Some of the questions that weren't answered in this chapter may be addressed, new characters may be introduced, and Riku and Roxas will start their journey towards whatever end it holds. Reviews are loved, as are recommendations to friends.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **I'm sorry that this took so long, and isn't as lengthy as I had hoped. There's no excuse for that, but the delay was based upon my parents and me going to Savannah, Georgia for a car convention. (Yes, it was every bit as hot as it sounds.) This chapter is mostly a bridge to chapter four, and I'll have that up as soon as possible.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Kingdom Hearts, or any of these characters. I also do not own _The Dark Tower _series, from which this down draw some (noticeable) inspiration.

* * *

><p>The roar of gunfire tore through the bar, a scream in the early afternoon sun, though no bullets shattered the walls or glass. In the street, a man laughed as another screamed, as people within the saloon stared at each other with wide, panicked eyes that darted from patron to patron to wait staff. Riku alone stood from his seat, moved toward the window they'd watched him from the night before. His motions remained fluid despite the mounting anxiety, his thoughts empty, focused only one one thing.<p>

"The old man," he said, turned to look at the people in the saloon. "Does anyone have a weapon?"

The room, now sprinkled with terrified people no better than frightened animals, was silent, save for the muffled screams from outside, where a man with silver in his black hair stood above a dying man, laughing still. No one spoke, just continued staring at the boy none of them knew, as he stood with calm poise, though terror sang in the street.

"Does anyone have a god damn weapon?" He shouted, shook Roxas at least from his silence.

"Behind the bar," he said, voice numb as he blurred into motion, jumped over the bar, held up a long barreled shot gun.

"Right," Riku said, as another shot elicited a shriek from Oolette. "Anyone else?"

"N-no," Oolette said, her voice shaking as badly as her body. "People here don't carry weapons."

"Okay," Riku said, eyes flicking over the empty space, calculating through his muted panic. "Roxas, come here. Everyone else, just, get down."

"Anybody home?" The voice drifting in from outside, and Riku knew they were out of time, even as Roxas came to him, gave him the gun, and the others in the saloon scrambled to hide.

"Be careful," Riku whispered, stood with his back flat against the wall, the door between them. "If he comes in facing me, scream, get his attention, I'll put him down."

Roxas nodded, but there was no more consultation before the man walked in, his face turned toward Riku, a smile stretching his lips. For a moment, the room and time froze, and then came the shooting.

Pain flared in Riku's side, as the man spun and he missed with the shotgun, forgetting in that instant that it could hit Roxas. The man's hand worked at his revolver, pushed back the hammer to cock it, to shoot the blond like he had Riku. The moment before it could happen, though the scene was little more than a frantic blur of motion, Riku slammed the butt of the shot gun into the man's head, blood and hair sloughing off and dripping to the floor, clinging to the wood of the gun.

The man fell in a crumpling heap, and Roxas was on him, the man's revolver giant in his small hands, which trembled as he held the barrel of the gun in the man's face.

"Wait," Riku said, his voice drawn as he knelt, wincing as he moved, to be closer to the still grinning man.

"Well played," the man said, coughed as Roxas dug a knee into his side.

"Who are you?" Riku asked.

"The only one you won't see coming," he said, glared up at the two of them with the clouded eyes of a dying man.

"What do you mean?"

"You'll be watching your back from now on, won't you?" He closed his eyes, then stared up at the ceiling, his gaze shifting from focus. "As if I thought you'd actually win... Guess he was right about you."

"Who? Who was right about me?" Riku had to resist the urge to shake the fading man, knew that if he did he'd kill him with the motion, that he couldn't injure the man further if he wanted answers.

"Ask him," the man said, blood pooling around his head, foaming at the corner of his mouth, the consciousness slipping fast, though he pointed with a limp wrist at Roxas. "He knows..."

Riku looked to Roxas, whose blue eyes were narrowed on the man, furious disbelief beneath their surface.

"Roxas..."

"You're lying," Roxas whispered, grabbed the man by the shoulders and shook him, slamming his head against the splintering floor as he did. "You're lying!"

"Stop it!" Riku screamed, took hold of the man's gun as Roxas dropped it, with one hand, and touched Roxas's shoulder with the other. "You're dying. Tell me who you are and I'll finish the job, make the pain stop, at least."

The man's eyes, filled with tears, locked on Riku's, his breath coming in gasps as he coughed again, a thin trickle of pinkish blood dripping down his chin.

"Ask him..." He whispered, smiled again. "Ask number thirteen..."

He closed his eyes, but Riku didn't give him the chance to die peacefully, grabbed the gun from the floor beside him instead, shot the man in the face in a moment of confused rage. He stared at the mutilated corpse in front of him, his body shaking as he began to realize that he'd been shot.

"Riku," Roxas smiled, moved toward Riku, arms outstretched, expression concerned. "Don't move... You're bleeding."

Riku shook his head, tried to stand, only to fall to the floor with a painful sigh. Blood welled under his hand, pressed hard to his side. He had no way to know whether the shot was bad or not, knew only that the pain circled his being, constricted his breathing as he felt the warmth fleeing from him.

"Oolette!" Roxas screamed. "Get the first aid kit!"

The shout broke through the shocked silence, brought a ripple of motion, a cacophony of disarray as people struggled to escape the gory scene. They darted around Riku, even as Roxas fought to protect him, keep them from stepping on him, hurting him more.

"Don't touch me," Riku whispered, took an unsteady breath as he fought against the pain that made all pains before it seem pale.

"Don't be like that," Roxas said, ripped Riku's shirt near the wound, winced when he saw it, gurgling blood. "You trusted me ten minutes ago, so don't start hating me for something I don't even remember."

Riku nodded, rational though he was beginning to shiver as he lost blood, his visual slipping into fuzzy waves.

"Did the bullet pass through?" Oolette asked, knelt beside the boys, her pale face strained.

"I think so," Roxas whispered, tilted Riku onto his side, cringing as Riku moaned. "Oh god. No... No it didn't."

Oolette took a breath, steeled herself. "Go get me some hot water, strong whiskey, and a set of tongs from the kitchen."

"Do you know what you're doing?" Roxas asked.

"No," Oolette said. "But what choice is there? Your magician killed the doctor."

"He did not!" Roxas all but shouted. "He didn't shoot Diz, this bastard did."

"He set the madness on him," she said, and her expression was clear, furious, blame aimed at Roxas as well as the departed mage. "Go get the things I need. I don't want a third person to die today."

Roxas hesitated for a moment, then turned and ran for the kitchen.

"You really got yourself into trouble for us," she said to Riku, her eyes scanning the wound. "It doesn't look too bad, though... It's far over on your side... I don't know how the bullet didn't pass through..."

Riku looked at her, tears welling his his eyes, but he nodded, felt the shock receding as he focused on breathing, on not succumbing to the pain. It wasn't working, but he knew it would only get worse before it got better.

"Doesn't look like you'll be leaving tonight, though," she tried to smile, the expression hollow.

"Just fix me up," Riku whispered, as Roxas skidded to a stop beside them.

Oolette nodded, thanked Roxas for the supplies. "Give him some of the whiskey."

Roxas, who had grabbed two bottles without thinking, began to help Riku to drink as much of the fiery liquid as he could, the bottle tilted back to slide the drink down his throat.

"I'm sorry," Roxas whispered, the fluid spilling down Riku's chin as he fought to keep drinking, though he hoped it would dull what came next.

His chest was warm, heavy, when Oolette doused the wound with the other bottle of whiskey, and for a moment there was nothing, only surprise and sluggish fear, and then came the pain. It hit him like a knife, sliced through his skin, made it feel as if every muscle in his body were being peeled fom his body, sinew by sinew.

It got worse.

Oolette was as quick as she could be, digging the bullet out as Roxas struggled to hold Riku in place as he tried in vain to struggle away, as he screamed. It was eternity to Riku, ripping, exploring pain, and it didn't end when Oolette extracted the bullet, sweat on his brow.

"Almost done," she whispered, her hands shaking as she took a curved needle and black thread from the kit.

"Can you finish?" Roxas whispered. "He's shaking pretty bad..."

"I know," she whispered. "Now shush and let me concentrate."

Roas nodded, watched as Oolette, with shaking hands, closed the wound, scooted back and away from Riku a moment later, her eyes fixed on the blood on her hands, the crumpled bullet that never should have been trapped.

"You're okay," Roxas whispered to Riku, who nodded, unable to speak through the pain. "It's over... You're okay..."

Riku closed his eyes, the alcohol warming him, but bringing no comfort, and just before the darkness took him, he saw a flash of blue, heard a distant voice, the crash of waves against sand.

"Riku!"

xxx xxx

"Xigbar has expired, you're certain?"

"I am."

The image before the young man nodded, a hood over his head, though his was white. "Unfortunate, though not entirely unforeseen."

"It was actually completely predictable," the seated man said, flipping his hood back to let the desert moon shine down onto blood red hair. "I told you not to underestimate him, boss."

"Don't start," the figure said, his image wavering as a breath of wind rippled through it. "This is a serious matter."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he rolled his eyes, leaned back against a rock. "I'm keeping it a secret, aren't I?"

"Perhaps, perhaps not, regardless, I don't want to lose any more members. Do you understand, Axel?"

"Loud and clear, boss," he snapped a salute, let his hand flutter to his hip a moment later. "I just hope they catch up soon, I'm sick of this place."

"Oh? I thought you'd enjoy it, dry as it is."

"Haha, you're hilarious, a sex joke, I mean, really," green eyes focused on the image he controlled. "Are we done here?"

"Do you remember the next step in the plan?"

"Like I'd forget it," Axel said. "Talk to you on the other side."

The man started to speak, but Axel was waving, the volume muted from the spell before he smudged his foot across the circle he'd drawn in the sand. It had only been for show, an outward display of the intricate forces he was working, but he liked it, liked the image it painted.

He leaned back, stretched against the rock at his back. It wasn't comfortable, nothing in the damn desert was, not the gritty sand that clogged his boots, not the wind that cut across the plains, burned his eyes, tore at his hair. He hated the feel of the sun on him, the sweat he couldn't escape in his billowing leather coat, but found better than the inevitable sunburn.

"I am so over this," he said, glared at the array of fire wood, which lit into a furious blaze as he did, warmed his chilled face from the frigid nighttime wind.

"Hope you feel better soon, kid," he whispered. "You've got a long way to go, and the road only gets bumpier."

He smiled, called fire to dance in his palm, kissing his skin but never burning it, coloring it red with a tickling touch that made him coo.

"I'd hate for you not to be at your best," he exhaled, spread the first to embers, watched it drift on the wind.

* * *

><p><strong>Ending: <strong>The next chapter will be... What the next chapter will be. I give up on pretending like I can foresee these things. The story will do what the story will do, and I'm just here to breathe life into it. I'd love it if you would join me on this ride. As always, comments are adored, as are recommendations to friends.


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